Time After Time
by onlyastoryteller
Summary: As Peter Burke watched Neal Caffrey's life slipping from him in S6:6 ("Au Revoir") he asked for more time, for another chance to get things right. Eventual Peter/Neal, but it's a slow build.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

A/N: Spoilers for entire series from very beginning.

A/N2: My first White Collar piece! This is a long one, so a couple of warnings for lovely readers: First, this is going to be a slooooooow burn. Please be patient with me, and it. Early chapters will closely follow the show, with a little bit of additional perspective and internal insight. I'm hoping it will be fun to rehash some of what we love while developing the AU part of the story slowly. Second, this is not a PWP. That's not what I write. I'm more of a "fade to black" kind of girl. If you're looking for quick pairing action, this is not the piece for you. Again, patience will serve you well and, I hope, will be worth it. Third, I have an extraordinarily demanding full time job and four (yes, four) part time jobs to pay my bills. I couldn't wait to get the first couple of pieces up, but this is a rough time of the year for my main job so again, please be patient. I'll do my best to update regularly but if you hate to be left hanging, maybe wait until it's complete. Finally, I revised the timeline from the actual show to make more sense; dates indicated line up with a realistic timeline and not when the show actually aired.

A/N3: I own nothing.

 **Chapter One: Prologue**

 _June 2014_

Peter Burke's arm vibrated from the recoil of the killing shot, but he barely noticed.

He watched as Matthew Keller crumpled to the pavement, a small red hole in the middle of his forehead. Peter only waited long enough to get a confirmation that the beat cop was taking over at the scene before he turned and sprinted back around the corner, in the direction Keller had been running from. He had one thought in his mind.

 _Get to Neal._

But it seemed he was too late. In front of him was a growing crowd of onlookers, surrounding an ambulance. A spear of ice snaked its way down his spine.

"Move! Move!" he shouted, pushing people aside. He ignored sounds of protests, and didn't care if he stepped on a foot or seven.

 _I'm coming for you, Neal._

Finally, he pushed past the people at the front of the crowd and could finally see his criminal informant. Neal Caffrey lay on a stretcher, a frighteningly large area of his chest covered in blood. An EMT was carefully but hurriedly placing gauze over his wounds. Neal's eyes were closed.

"Neal!"

Peter lunged forward, but an EMT got in his path.

"Sir, you need to step back," she said firmly, but he ignored her, reaching for Neal.

Neal's eyes opened. A blast of relief washed over him, followed by fear. Neal's captivating blue eyes looked dull and strained, and his face was too pale. Peter reached out and grabbed Neal's hand in both of his own, squeezing tight.

"Hang on, Neal. We'll get you out of this."

Neal shook his head. "I don't think so, Peter. Not this time," he said, his voice a little breathy.

"Don't say that," said Peter.

"It's okay," said Neal. "Peter, thank you. You were the only one who saw good in me. You were my best friend."

 _No, not were. Are. You are my best friend. My…you're more than that. Don't go. I…I love you,_ Peter thought desperately. But he couldn't make the words come out.

Neal's eyes closed, and Peter reflexively squeezed his own eyes shut in response. The EMT began to push at Peter. "Sir, you have to let go," she said. He felt her hands trying to pry his open, to release his grip on Neal, but he wouldn't budge. Instead, Peter clasped Neal's hand more tightly and raised it to his lips. He placed a kiss on Neal's increasingly cold knuckles.

 _Please. I need more time,_ he prayed. _Another chance. I'll do it right this time. I won't let him think I don't trust him, or that he's not good enough. I'll tell him how I feel. Give me another chance. A little more time. Please._

Taking a deep breath, Peter opened his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2: And So It Begins Again

A/N: Spoilers for entire series from very beginning. While Neal is being carried off by the ambulance in the final episode (Au Revoir, S6:6), Peter Burke asks for more time, another chance to do things right.

A/N2: My first White Collar piece! This is a long one, so a couple of warnings for lovely readers: First, this is going to be a slooooooow burn. Please be patient with me, and it. Early chapters will closely follow the show, with a little bit of additional perspective and internal insight. I'm hoping it will be fun to rehash some of what we love while developing the AU part of the story slowly. Second, this is not a PWP. We'll eventually get to some, er, exciting parts…but if you're looking for quick pairing action, this is not the piece for you. Again, patience will serve you well and, I hope, will be worth it. Third, I have an extraordinarily demanding full time job and four (yes, four) part time jobs to pay my bills. I couldn't wait to get the first couple of pieces up, but this is a rough time of the year for my main job so again, please be patient. I'll do my best to update regularly but if you hate to be left hanging, maybe wait until it's complete.

A/N3: I own nothing.

 **Chapter Two: And So It Begins Again**

 _June 2011_

Peter opened his eyes to blackness. His heart was racing, his breathing was labored, and he was clasping his hands together under his chin, squeezing so hard he could feel his bones smashing together. He felt a wetness around his eyes, as though he had been crying.

It took him a moment to realize he was in his bedroom, and it was the middle of the night. He took several deep breaths and glanced to his left. The glowing numbers on his alarm clock read 5:50AM. It would go off in ten minutes. He looked to his right. El was sound asleep, breathing evenly and looking peaceful.

 _What had woken him up?_

He relaxed his hands and pulled them apart slowly, stretching the muscles in his fingers and wincing at the pain he had caused himself. He searched his mind and tried to remember what he had been dreaming about, what could have made him cry, be so anxious.

Usually, Peter remembered his dreams when he woke up in the middle of them. They were jumbled nonsense, but he could remember. This time, there was nothing. A gaping black hole. He could barely even remember what day it was, what had happened yesterday.

All he could remember was a deep, lasting sadness, a sense of profound loss. But he hadn't lost anything. Had he?

Peter canceled the alarm and pushed himself out of bed with a soft groan. All his muscles ached, not just the ones in his hands. He must have been fully tense during his dreams.

El opened her eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice clouded with sleep.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep, hon," said Peter. "I just woke up before the alarm."

"Mmmph," she replied, and her eyes drifted closed once more.

Peter smiled. He thought, for the millionth time, how damned lucky he was to have found Elizabeth.

A few minutes later, he stood under the stream of scalding hot water, hoping the heat would help him shake this feeling that he was forgetting something terrible, and terribly important. It worked, sort of. By the time the last of the water swirled down the drain, Peter was feeling more relaxed. By the time he had brushed his teeth and combed his hair, he felt less sad. And by the time he knotted his tie and shrugged into the jacket of his favorite suit, he felt more like the Peter Burke he knew.

Whatever he was forgetting, he'd remember it eventually.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

Clouds of smoke billowed around Peter as he covered his mouth with his shirt collar and dragged Denny out of the area of the blast. Coughing, the two men stumbled into the outer room.

"What happened?" asked Denny.

"I said 'wait.' You didn't wait," barked Peter. "10,000 man hours to get this close to the Dutchman, and you blow up my evidence."

Clinton Jones spoke up. "Agent Burke, how did you know it was gonna blow?"

"The code," said Peter. "Three, two, four. Look at your phones. What does that spell?"

Jones's face fell. "FBI. He knew we were coming."

"You think so, Copernicus?" Peter immediately felt bad for snapping at Jones. Jones was brand new to the White Collar Division, and so far Peter had been impressed by the young agent's intelligence and focus. The last thing he wanted was for Jones to transfer. He made a mental note to pull him aside and have a word. Later. Once the dust had cleared and he could think straight again. Once he wasn't blinded by frustration over losing their tiny lead on the master criminal he had been tracking for years now.

He plucked a tiny red strand off of his suit jacket. It wiggled a little, glinting in the light. He held it up.

"Somebody want to tell me what this is? Huh? Anybody? Nobody knows what this is? Great." Peter handed the thread to Jones, and was about to continue, when he spotted his "probie," Diana Berrigan, approaching. She looked grim.

"What?" he asked, a little more sharply than he had intended.

"Neal Caffrey escaped," murmured Diana, her voice pitched low to avoid being overheard by the entire team.

 _Neal._

Upon hearing the name, Peter let out a quick breath, one that was half excitement, half…something else. There was a brief pang deep in his chest, and immediately, he was brought back to the moment he had awoken from his dream that morning. Had his dream involved Neal? Had he foreseen the escape somehow?

Neal Caffrey – brilliant, daring, Neal Caffrey, one of the few remaining "gentleman thieves" – had been a big part of Peter's life for nearly seven years. He first popped up on Peter's radar when Peter was a much younger agent, trying to make a name for himself with the FBI. Something about the bond forgery case intrigued Peter. The bonds were masterful forgeries, for one thing. The forger was a true artist. And the moment Peter realized that he had unknowingly laid eyes on the man responsible – had even _shaken his hand_ – outside a bank early on in the investigation, well, the hunt was personal.

He had spent three years chasing Neal Caffrey around the world, always a few steps behind. As he pursued, he learned that Caffrey was not just an artist, a forger. He was a talented con man and thief, a devil with an electric smile and mesmerizing blue eyes. Caffrey also enjoyed the hunt, playing with Peter by sending him postcards and gifts from locations far and near.

The day he finally caught up with Neal was a day Peter played over and over in his mind like a favorite movie. He remembered how his stomach rolled in excitement while he waited outside the storage facility, the metallic taste of adrenaline pooling in his mouth. He'd never forget how his heart beat a rapid rhythm in his chest as he watched Neal raise his hands to his head and slowly turn, a look of disappointment and resignation all over his beautiful face.

Then his favorite part: _Neal smiles and drops his hand, offering it to Peter as if they are old friends, meeting up in a bar after too long apart. While his team cocks their weapons in a chorus of warning, Peter lowers his own gun and accepts Neal's offer. They clasp hands, and it's not just victory Peter feels, but a homecoming._

The admiration Peter had felt for his adversary in that moment did not decline during the months of the trial and the years Neal sat in prison, sending Peter birthday and anniversary cards and clever notes.

He was brought back to the present when Diana shoved an envelope at him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"U.S. Marshals are requesting your help. Director Thompson asked for you personally," said Diana.

 _I'm coming for you, Neal._

A Neal Caffrey hunt? Maybe his day was looking up after all.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

Tracking Neal to Kate Moreau's apartment was simpler than Peter had thought it would be. To be honest, he was a little disappointed. Neal had left clues that were too easy to follow, and the game was over too quickly. They hadn't caught him yet, but Peter was sure Neal was up in the apartment. He could almost sense his presence, calling to Peter like a magnet.

The vague sense of loss, of sadness, that he had been trying to shake for good all day had finally been forgotten once he began chasing Neal, and he was worried it would soon settle upon him once more.

"We're ready on your go, Agent Burke," growled one of the Marshals. Thirty plus men and women stood at the ready, in riot gear with guns drawn, outside the small apartment building in Brooklyn. More had circled around to cover all entrances, to cut off any means of escape.

Peter held up a hand. "No," he said. "I want you to stay back. I'm going up first."

"We'll be right behind you, sir," said the Marshal.

That was the last thing Peter wanted, to allow a situation where some agent with a twitchy trigger finger would fire on a likely defenseless Neal. The thought sent a wave of nausea over him, and for the briefest of moments, he imagined Neal laid out on a stretcher, dying from a gunshot wound to the chest.

 _Not Neal. Not today. Not ever._

Peter shook his head. "I want you and your men to wait here," he said.

"Burke, that could be dangerous," said the Marshal. "We'll cover you. He may be armed."

Peter smiled. "See, that's the problem. You don't know Neal Caffrey. He doesn't use guns. Hates 'em. I'll be fine."

"Sir, with all due respect, he broke out of a supermax with less than three months to go on his sentence. He'll be desperate. You don't know what he'll do."

"Look," said Peter. "I do know. I'm the only one who knows. That's why your boss called me in. He ran to go after the love of his life. If he found her, they'll be long gone. If he didn't – and I suspect he didn't – he'll have given up. Besides, if we charge up there like a herd of elephants and he _is_ inclined to run again, we'll give him too much warning."

"But the exits –"

"Neal is slippery. He'll find a way. Stand down until I call you up."

The Marshal hesitated. "We'll let you go ahead. But we'll follow if we don't hear anything in two minutes."

Peter frowned. "Give me five," he said, then entered the building and headed for the stairs. He couldn't explain it, but if Neal was up there, he wanted a few minutes with him before they hauled him away.

He could see Neal as soon as he entered the apartment, and the sight sent a fissure of anticipation straight into his core. The boy was sitting against a pillar, his back to the door, holding a wine bottle. He was staring at the bottle, his profile sharp against the light coming through the far window. Peter immediately knew Neal was giving up. If he had any interest in truly escaping, he would have been on alert.

"I see Kate moved out," said Peter, looking around the empty room. "She leave you a message in that?"

Neal looked up slightly, but didn't turn around. He sighed. "The bottle is the message," he said, in his calm drawl.

The sound of Neal's voice brought everything back into balance for Peter. He suddenly felt calm, as though he had found and set right whatever it was that had been bothering him since that morning.

"It's been a while," said Peter.

"Yeah. A few years, give or take."

 _Three years, four months, and five days since the sentencing._

"You carrying?" Peter knew the answer, but had to ask anyway.

"You know I don't like guns," said Neal.

Peter walked slowly into the room. He could see he didn't need to worry about Neal running. Just like the first time he had caught him, Neal knew when it was time to take his medicine and faced it with dignity.

"They asked me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with four months to go?" Peter circled around the pillar so he could see Neal's face. Neal continued to look at the bottle. He hadn't yet made eye contact with Peter.

"Guess you figured it out," Neal said lightly.

"Kate says adios to you in prison and gets busy with her disappearing act. The trail ends here. But you already know that."

Neal smirked. "Missed her by two days," he said. The defeat in his voice was evident, and Peter felt an inexplicable urge to reach out and comfort the younger man, to tell him he'd get over Kate eventually, to offer a shoulder to cry on.

That might explain why his next comment was designed to boost Neal up.

"Still. Only took you a month and a half to escape a supermax. Damned impressive."

Neal managed a small laugh, and Peter's smile broadened in response. He was about to add something about the cleverness of the beard, the boldness of using the warden's wife's credit card to purchase the uniform, that sort of thing, but his radio buzzed. He figured he better let them know the situation, else they'd come barging in, weapons drawn.

"Subject identified and _unarmed_ ," Peter said into the radio, emphasizing the last word. He hadn't patted Neal down, but he trusted Neal to be honest – about some things.

"Roger that," came the Marshal's reply.

Neal looked up at Peter then. "We surrounded?" he asked, the note of resignation clear. Peter nodded. "How many?"

"Including my agents, and the Marshals? All of them, I think." He offered a smile to soften the implication. Neal nodded, his face drooping, then looked back at the bottle in his hand.

Peter watched him a moment. He seemed lost in thought.

"What's the message?" Peter asked.

"Goodbye."

Peter snorted. "Women." He sighed. "They're…gonna give you another four years for this, you know."

"I don't care," said Neal, his voice dull.

Peter watched him carefully. He did seem to be devoid of hope or concern, simply resigned to spending the rest of his life behind bars if he couldn't be with Kate. Once again, the urge to comfort rose up. But then Neal put the bottle down and looked back at Peter. He grinned, and pushed himself to his feet. Before Peter's eyes, he seemed to be gathering himself, transforming back into a version of the real Caffrey.

"That's the same suit you were wearing the last time you arrested me," Neal said.

Peter shrugged, momentarily relieved. Caffrey seemed okay. "Classics never go out of style," he replied.

Suddenly, Neal's expression changed. His eyes focused on Peter's right shoulder, and he narrowed his eyes. He took a small step forward, then, seeming to think the better of it, looked right at Peter. He reached toward him slowly, palm open. Peter gave a small nod to let Neal know he was allowing the approach. Neal plucked a small red strand of Peter's should – the same type of strand Peter had noticed at the scene of the explosion earlier.

Neal held the strand up to the light. "You know what this is?" he asked.

Peter shook his head. "No idea. I got it from a case I was supposed to be working on before they yanked me off to find you."

"You think you'll catch him?"

"Don't know. He's good. Maybe as good as you."

Neal smirked. Peter could tell he didn't believe that for a second. No one was as good as Neal Caffrey. He got a calculating look in his eyes, and Peter couldn't help but admire it. He was thinking, and thinking fast. That was what was so exciting about Neal, the way his brain _moved_ , like lightning. He could see entire chess games in a the time it took to blink.

 _Good,_ thought Peter. _He must be feeling better already._

"What's it worth if I tell you what this is?" asked Neal. "Is it worth a meeting?"

They begin to hear sounds on the stairs. The agents were coming. Neal glanced over his shoulder, as if he could tell he was running out of time in this conversation.

"What are you talking about?"

Neal spoke more urgently now, forcefully, his words precise and clear. "If I tell you what this is, _right now_ , will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?"

Peter considered. He would like to visit with Neal. For some reason, the thought of going another three years, four months, and five days without seeing his face and hearing his voice was unbearable. What was that about?

"Just a meeting," said Neal. Peter detected a hint of desperation in his voice. Real desperation, he wondered, or fake, to complete a con?

The agents were nearly on them, tromping through the hallway just outside the door.

"A meeting," agreed Peter.

"It's the security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill," said Neal in a hurry.

Agents burst into the room. Neal handed the fiber back to Peter, who was staring at him in shock. How could Neal possibly know that?

As the agents descended on Neal, yanking his arms behind his back to be handcuffed, he locked eyes with Peter. "One week," he reminded sternly.

Peter watched the agents drag Neal – with a little too much enthusiasm – from the apartment. He examined the fiber in his hands. The Canadian hundred? He'd have to see about that. And if Neal was right, he'd see him in a week.

Maybe he'd go see him either way. Maybe.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

There was something about seeing Neal in prison orange that brought out all of Peter's protective instincts. He should have felt proud to see the criminal he took down – when no one else could – brought to justice for his crimes. Instead, he couldn't help but think that the prison jumpsuit stripped Neal of dignity, in a way that was a crying shame. It made Neal seem like a caged animal, and he…deserved better than that.

He looked upbeat, however, and his grin as they discussed the Canadian reaction to the incident was blinding. And Peter once again was impressed by how much Neal knew and how damned sharp he was. Until Neal offered to help Peter catch the Dutchman. _Outside_ of prison.

"You can get me out of here," said Neal, sliding a manila folder across the table and opening it. "There's case law, precedent. I can be released into your custody—"

Peter snorted. "Nice. But I know the second you're out of here, you'll take off after Kate."

Neal widened his big blue eyes so that Peter almost felt he could see directly into Neal's soul.

"Peter, I'm not going to run," Neal said. He jabbed his finger at the paperwork. "GPS tracking anklet. The new ones are tamper proof. Never been skipped on."

The idea of having Neal working beside him, tethered by an anklet Peter controlled, was almost too much. Something pinged inside his chest, inexplicably reminding him of that unknown dream he had had a week earlier.

 _Do it,_ said a voice in his head. _Bring him home with you. Keep him safe._

Peter shook his head, both to tell Neal no and to shake off his odd thoughts. "There's always a first time," he said.

"Think about it," Neal pleaded.

Peter stood. "Sorry Neal," he said. "Nice try."

He made himself walk out the door without looking back. He didn't want to see the disappointment on Neal's face.

Once in his car, Peter closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Neal out of prison was a bad idea, he told himself. Better to keep him inside, where he can't do any damage.

As soon as he thought it, however, his heart broke a little. Neal didn't belong in prison for another four years. Not for his escape, anyhow, which wasn't really an escape with the intent to skip out on his sentence. For other crimes, maybe he did deserve four years. But he hadn't been convicted of any other crimes.

And honestly, the idea of working _with_ Neal, having access to his brilliant mind…that gave Peter a thrill. He had worked with criminal informants before, but never one like Neal Caffrey. Imagine what they could do if they worked together, rather than at cross purposes? They could be unstoppable.

So long as Neal played for his team and not theirs. So long as it wasn't some long con he was planning. So long as…

Peter sighed. He had told Neal no. That was that. No big deal, it was status quo.

So why did he suddenly feel that heavy ache of loss again? He hadn't lost anything. Not Neal. He knew exactly where Neal was. Maybe he'd think this over a little, but he'd do it privately. He wouldn't give Neal any false hope.

 _Hang in there, Neal_ , he thought. _I know where to find you._


	3. Chapter 3: Take Another Chance

A/N: Spoilers for entire series from very beginning. While Neal Caffrey is being carried off by the ambulance in the final episode (Au Revoir, S6:6), Peter Burke asks for more time, another chance to do things right. When he wakes up, he is back in his bed the morning he had caught Neal for the second time, three years earlier. The catch? He remembers nothing, except a feeling of deep loss and the sense he's forgotten something important. Is Peter doomed to make the same mistakes the second time around?

A/N2: I own nothing.

 **Chapter Three: Take Another Chance**

 _October 2011_

Inside the prison visitor cell, Peter tapped his pen rapidly on the metal tabletop. When the noise began to irritate him, he forced himself to lay the pen down beside his manila folder and take a few deep breaths to calm down.

It didn't work, and after a minute, he pushed to his feet and began to pace the narrow confines of the room. Pace, two, three, four, five, turn. Pace, two, three, four, five, stop at the window. Pace…

He was going crazy waiting.

It made no sense, really. A few more minutes shouldn't matter. It had been nearly four months since he had last seen Neal Caffrey, in this very same room. Nearly four months since he had turned away rather than see the look of disappointment that was sure to be on his face when Peter turned down his proposal. Four months during which he had tossed and turned each night, sleep disturbed by the feeling he was screwing something up, and that something had to do with Neal.

Ultimately, it had been a conversation with El that had convinced him to give it a try. Neal would probably try to go after Kate, either with the anklet or by skipping on it. But maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would be true to his word, and see this as an opportunity to change his life. Maybe Peter could help him see the benefit to using his brilliance to solve crimes rather than commit them.

Or maybe Peter just wanted a chance to work with the man he admired more than almost anyone he had ever met, no matter how short-lived it may be.

So he had put the release into motion, expediting it and requiring silence from all parties. He wanted to be the one to tell Neal, to see his face when he learned he was getting out of prison. He wasn't sure _why_ that was so important to him – he just knew that it was.

The door opened, and Peter finally laid eyes on Neal, hands cuffed in front of him. He was followed into the room by a burly guard. The convict's features blossomed into a sparkling smile as soon as he realized who his visitor was.

"Peter," he said. "What brings my favorite FBI agent to my humble abode? Tell me. Was it the rumors of the world-class food? The relaxing atmosphere?"

The door to the room clanged shut behind the men. Neal offered his chained wrists to the guard, who unlocked the cuffs and took up his position in front of the door.

Somehow, Peter managed to control his features, which threatened to break into an answering grin.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the table. He waited for Neal to get settled and then watched him carefully. Neal sat casually, hands folded and resting on the table in front of him. His face was a picture of innocence, his lips curling upwards slightly and his eyes wide.

It was difficult to catch Neal off guard, but Peter was going to try. For the fun of it.

He frowned, pursing his lips slightly in the way El said made him look particularly annoyed. He turned away from Neal, paced to the window, and turned back. He folded his arms across his chest.

"I have a problem, Neal."

Neal's smile wavered slightly, but he regrouped instantly. "How can I help you? You have a question about a case? Maybe about your search for the Dutchman?"

"What do you know about the Dutchman case?" asked Peter, still frowning.

"I know you still have no idea who he is. Hard to catch someone when you don't know who you're looking for."

"True," said Peter. "I mean, it's not like he was dumb enough to shake my hand in front of a crime scene one day."

Neal laughed. "Dumb enough, or daring enough?"

"Sometimes that amounts to the same thing." Peter crossed back to the table and sat down across from Neal. "For example, I can't decide if what I'm about to do is dumb or daring. Maybe it's both."

"I could help you decide," said Neal.

"As I was saying, I have a problem. My problem is that I am really good at solving cases and finding criminals."

Neal leaned back and spread his arms wide. "Call me Exhibit A."

"Well, Exhibit A, here's the problem: I think I could be even better with a little bit of help."

This was the moment. Peter opened his folder and turned it toward Neal, so that Neal could see the title of the document inside. "Conditions of Release – Custody of FBI," proclaimed the bold lettering at the top of the first page. At the bottom was a series of signatures, including Peter's, and one empty space for Neal to sign.

Peter wasn't disappointed.

Neal's mouth dropped open, and he gaped at the document. Then he looked up at Peter. For perhaps the first time, Peter thought he was seeing a truly genuine Neal Caffrey, without a single filter in place. His eyes shone brightly, his cheeks flushed.

"Don't play games with me, Agent Burke. Not about this," said Neal.

"No games. You should read this thoroughly. Essentially, it says that you'll be released from prison into my custody, equipped with a state-of-the-art tracking anklet to prevent unauthorized movement. You'll work with me at the FBI White Collar Division, reporting to work for regular hours each day and being generally on call outside of normal working hours. You'll help me out with cases, and the agency will do its best to conceal your relationship with us so that you can maintain some contact with the criminal world. That does not mean you are free to commit criminal acts, just that you may need to talk to people who are and will be given some leeway to do that and maintain those relationships."

Peter paused a moment. Neal started to speak, but Peter held up a hand.

"Read it before you say anything. Take your time. I can wait."

He couldn't, not really, but he would do his best. Neal began to read through the agreement. Peter wasn't worried that he would need help understanding it – Neal was smart enough to think through all of the variables himself. After several minutes, Neal looked up.

"What do you think?" asked Peter.

"I think this is a gift. Thank you, Agent Burke. Really, thank you." Neal was sincere, Peter could tell. There was no con behind his gratitude.

"I want to be absolutely clear about something. If you run, and I catch you – which you know I will because I'm 2 and 0 – you're not back here for four years, you're back here for good."

Neal nodded. Satisfied that he understood the terms, Peter handed him the pen. Neal signed the line at the bottom with a flourish, then looked up, grinning.

"Now what?" he asked.

"You're going to be tempted to look for Kate. Don't."

Neal shook his head emphatically. "I told you, the bottle meant goodbye."

It wasn't agreement, and Peter knew that, but he let it go for the moment.

"Then leave it at that. This is a temporary arrangement. Help me catch the Dutchman, and we can make it permanent."

"Agent Burke, you won't regret this. I'll help you catch them all."

Peter smiled. "That's what I'm hoping." He pulled a small box out of his pocket and opened it, revealing a clunky grey tracking device attached to a flexible black strap. "Let's see if this fits, make it official," he said, rising from his seat and coming around the table.

Neal pulled his foot up onto the bench, and Peter knelt in front of him. A moment later, the anklet was secure, and the little green light on the anklet was steadily flashing on and off.

"There. Fits like a glove."

Neal flexed his ankle and made a face. "It chaffs," he said.

"You complaining?"

"Nope. Not me. Never." Neal dropped his foot. "Agent Burke—"

"They'll process your release, give you street clothes. I'll meet you outside. Oh," said Peter, reaching over to pick up a long black wool coat that was slung over the other table. "This is for you. My wife insisted I bring it, since the prison won't give you one, and it's a little cold today."

He handed the coat to the guard, who nodded. Neal smiled.

"You think of everything, Agent Burke."

"No, but maybe the two of us together will. Oh, and Neal? Drop the 'Agent Burke' business. You've been calling me Peter for years."

Neal raised his hand to his brow in salute. "Aye aye, boss."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I'll meet you outside," he said. Then he turned and strode through the visitor's door, resisting the urge to look back. He'd see Neal again in a couple of hours, and then all day every day for the foreseeable future.

If that didn't quiet the voice inside, the one that kept saying, _watch out for Neal, keep him safe,_ he didn't know what would.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

 _You have got to be kidding me._

Peter stared up at the opulent mansion on Riverside Drive. This was the address Neal had left for him, but it must be a mistake. Then again…

He rang the bell and waited, unsure whether to be angry, frightened, or relieved. The previous afternoon, after he had dropped Neal off at the fleabag motel the Bureau had designated as his new "home," Peter had fretted about whether the ex-con would be all right staying there.

He wasn't worried – much – about Neal's safety. The kid could certainly take care of himself. It was his mental state that concerned Peter. Sure, it was better than prison. Neal could go out and wander around in his two-mile radius, shop, and interact with people. But he was stuck living in an environment that might tempt him, out of desperation, to bend or break the rules in order to have some creature comforts. After all, this was a man who had broken out of prison – dooming himself to an additional four-year sentence – to chase after a girl. He was impulsive, and he might get the impulse to do something drastic to protest his living arrangements.

For a brief few minutes during the drive back to his own house, Peter had considered offering Neal their guest room. He could really keep an eye on him there.

 _Do it,_ said that damned internal voice. _Turn the car around, bring him home._

Ultimately, Peter had ignored the voice. Having Neal live in his house? That was ridiculous. He was worried about nothing. If Neal broke the law, he'd go back to prison, and that wasn't Peter's problem.

Now, however, standing in front of a house that was clearly owned by someone very wealthy, Peter wondered if his initial instinct had been dead on. Had Neal already begun a con?

The door opened to reveal a housekeeper.

"Hi," said Peter. "I think I have the wrong house."

The housekeeper blinked. From behind her, inside the house, came a response, in an elegant, cultured voice.

"You must be Peter."

The housekeeper stepped aside, and Peter entered the foyer, peering through the archway into the parlor beyond. There stood the woman who matched the voice: elegant, poised, and carrying an adorable pug.

"I'm looking for Neal," Peter said.

The woman smiled. "He's upstairs."

So he was in the right place after all. Peter followed the housekeeper up the stairs, his trepidation growing with each step. What had Neal done? Was Peter going to have to drag him out in handcuffs, send him back to prison, before they had even begun?

 _You should have taken him home._

Peter swore under his breath, willing the voice to shut the hell up already.

They reached the top floor, and the housekeeper waived Peter through a door onto a rooftop patio. He gaped at the stunning view of the city. Then he scanned the area and noticed Neal, lounging at a table in a silk robe, reading a newspaper, a spread of breakfast laid out in front of him. An aroma of dark roast coffee – high quality dark roast coffee – wafted over from the table, and Peter inhaled the tantalizing scent.

 _He looks like he belongs here,_ thought Peter. He nearly smiled at the sight. This was much better than seeing him in prison orange or in that smelly, run-down motel. _This_ was the Neal he had always imagined.

Neal lowered his paper, and grinned at Peter. "You're early," he said.

"We're chasing a lead at the airport," Peter replied. "We got a hit on Snow White."

"Snow White…the phrase you decoded from a suspected Dutchman communiqué to Barcelona." Neal winked and tapped the fat file folder sitting on the table to his left, the one Peter had given him to study the night before.

Interesting. Somehow Neal had found time to con his way into this luxurious fantasy and to read through the complex file, committing even small details to memory. Peter resisted the urge to clap his hands with excitement. Neal was really as smart as he had always thought. And maybe he was taking this seriously.

Instead, Peter frowned. "You moved," he said. The smell of the coffee was starting to be impossible to resist.

"Yeah. It's nicer than the other place, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I don't remember the other place having a view." Peter waved his hand at vista that spread around them. He raised an eyebrow at Neal, and Neal immediately understood his unspoken question.

"I went to the thrift store for some clothes, like you suggested, and June—"

"Lady with the dog. We met."

"—was donating her husband's clothes. We hit it off, she had an extra guest room…"

Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal. Here it was, the con.

"You said, if I find a nicer place for the same price, I should take it."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I did say that. You got all this for seven hundred a month? You know what, I don't want to know. You're unbelievable. Go get dressed."

Peter pointed in the direction of the house, and Neal obediently folder the paper and strode across the patio, silk fluttering in the breeze.

There wasn't much time to think or be concerned about Neal's exploits, however, because as Neal left, June arrived. She motioned for Peter to have a seat with her, and he gave in to the desire to taste some of that coffee, pouring himself a generous cup.

He let out a sigh after the first blissful sip. "It's perfect. Even the freaking coffee's perfect."

June chuckled, and Peter focused on her sternly.

"That's not jewelry around his ankle, you know," he said. "He's a felon."

She smiled and leaned forward, as though about to reveal a secret. "So was Byron."

He shook his head, but decided to give up. He had a good sense about people, and what he sensed about June was that she wasn't likely to be conned unless she wanted to be conned. There was a shrewd intelligence in her eyes, and Peter decided to trust that she could take care of herself. Maybe Neal was in the right place indeed.

After a few minutes of pleasant conversation and the end of the wonderful coffee, Peter headed back down to the parlor to await Neal. He didn't have long to wait, and when his new C.I. descended the staircase, Peter found himself gaping once more.

If the ex-con had looked right at home on the stunning rooftop patio in the silk robe, he looked even more at home in a tailored – and likely very expensive – classic suit. He sauntered down the stairs as though dancing to the complex beats of Gene Krupa, the smug smile taunting Peter to make a comment. When he reached the bottom, Neal spun around, showing off his look, then flipped a fedora onto his head like he had just walked out of Rick's Café.

Neal looked at Peter expectantly. It was like he knew Peter wanted to make a comment. Peter did want to comment.

 _You look like you again. You look happy. Cute trick with the hat._

Instead, Peter said, "You look like a cartoon." That hadn't been what he meant to say at all, and he immediately regretted it when Neal's face fell.

"This is classic Rat Pack," Neal said, pouting slightly. "This is a Devore."

Peter chuckled. "Sorry, Dino."

Neal began flipping his hat on and off his head, pausing as though looking for applause after each new trick.

"Would you stop with the hat? Come on, let's go," said Peter. Why was his voice so sharp and bitter?

"You're upset," said Neal. "Sour grapes."

Peter peered at him. "What was that?"

"Look, you tell me which rule I broke, and I will thumb it back to prison myself."

He hadn't broken any rules, and he knew it. He was bending them, pushing the boundaries, smooth-talking and smiling his way into better versions of compliance. But wasn't that what Peter liked about Neal? Why he had decided to try this arrangement in the first place? He was clever.

Which was good, as long as he wasn't using that cleverness to break the law and outsmart…well, outsmart Peter. Maybe Peter could explain this to Neal.

"Listen," said Peter. "I work hard. I do my job well. And I don't have a ten million dollar rooftop view of Manhattan where I can sip espresso in silk."

"Why not?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Because I'm not supposed to. The amount of work I do equals certain things in the real world. Not cappuccino in the clouds."

"Tell you what, I'll find out where June buys her coffee if it's that important."

"Neal, it's not about the coffee."

"I think it is."

Peter rubbed his face with his hands. "This is what gets you into trouble. This is the start of those something-for-nothing schemes that lead to the frauds that got you locked up."

Neal sauntered forward and leaned in conspiratorially. "I think it's some sort of Italian roast."

"Get in the car!" Peter clamped a hand on Neal's shoulder and steered him towards the door.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

It had been an eventful day. They had found a shipment of decidedly not rare Spanish fairy tale books that a rare book dealer was bringing into the country. Then the book dealer was murdered by a man posing as his lawyer – stuck a hypodermic needle full of sodium thiopental into his neck – before Peter could finish interrogating him.

Fortunately, Neal began to earn his status and live up to his reputation by almost immediately figuring out why the books were valuable: each contained a blank sheet of Spanish-press parchment from the 1940s, which Neal pointed out could be used to counterfeit something originally printed on such paper.

Then they caught a lucky break, when they found a visitor's card from the National Archive in the dead book dealer's wallet. That led them to discover that the book dealer had been in twice to see a Spanish Victory Bond…only, as Neal pointed out, the dealer must have swapped the real one out for a fake during his last visit, because the ink on it wasn't quite dry.

Finally, the team had assembled and, by putting their considerably sharp heads together with Neal's criminal mind, they had figured out the potential strategy behind the Victory Bond forgeries…and the potential value.

Now, Peter was driving Neal home. He was tired, but also excited. For one single day together, they were making more progress more quickly than Peter and his team had made in years. He wanted to talk about it. But Neal had other ideas.

"Big plans for the weekend?" Neal asked.

"Oh, you know. I gotta fix the sink, catch the game." Peter switched the windshield wipers on high, since the rain had really started to come down.

"With Elizabeth?" The note of incredulity in Neal's voice caused Peter to turn and glance his way. Neal looked like he didn't approve. Probably too domestic for his tastes.

"Yeah, she's into it. How cool is that? She likes to watch the Giants."

"Even on your anniversary?"

Peter unintentionally slammed the brakes. Crap. How did he always do this? Always. He'd be thinking about making plans, and then suddenly, here it was, the big day, and he had screwed up again. Of course Caffrey would remember.

He tuned back in to what Neal was saying. Something about what Elizabeth was into. How was he supposed to know? El liked Satchmo, and Peter, and being an event planner, and art…maybe he could do something with art.

"Peter, how could you not know?" Neal asked, taking Peter's silence for what it was. "When you were chasing me, you knew my shoe size, what time I woke up in the morning—"

"That's the job," Peter said.

"So a relationship isn't work?"

"No. You do not get to lecture me on relationships. My wife didn't change her identity and flee the country to get away from me."

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Here he was, trying to keep Neal from making stupid, reckless decisions, and he might as well have waved a red cape in front of a bull.

"Did she really flee the country?" asked Neal. His voice hinted at desperation, though he was trying to sound casual.

"I don't know."

"France? Did she go to France?"

Peter sighed and pulled the car over to the side of the road, ignoring the blares of horns from drivers who were less than pleased with his sudden choice. He put the car in park and turned to look at Neal. The kid was staring out his window, a lost look on his face.

"Neal." Peter waited until Neal turned towards him. There was no eye contact, but he knew Neal was listening. "I'm going to tell you this once, and I'd like you to consider believing me. I'm not lying to you. I don't know where Kate is."

Neal nodded, now staring down into his lap.

"I do not want you looking for her. Your best bet is to let it go. Let that be part of past-Neal's life. Focus on present-Neal's life."

Neal snorted. "What is present-Neal's life? I'm a convict…"

"Who got caught because you were chasing her, and then got additional time for trying to chase her again. Learn a lesson from that. Nothing good can come of it." Peter sighed. "Present-Neal has a pretty good deal. He's got a good, honest job, doing something I think he'll really enjoy. He's got a better place to live than he has a right to."

"Yeah, June's is great." Neal smiled slightly.

"And maybe, if he plays his cards right and keeps his focus, he's got a real life ahead of him. One that doesn't involve running from people like me."

Neal looked right at Peter then. "Thanks, Peter," he said. "Really. I really appreciate what you've done for me."

"You have to earn it," Peter warned. "We have got to catch the Dutchman for me to convince the brass this is a beneficial long-term arrangement. Today was a good start. Let's keep it going. And not get distracted by Kate."

Neal nodded. "I understand. It would be easier for me to do if…never mind." He looked away, back at the rain streaming down his window.

"If what?" asked Peter.

"If I knew that _someone_ was looking into it." Neal turned back to Peter. "I'll do my best to let it go. But I could succeed at that if I knew that someone with resources, who was smart and who knew Kate like they know me—"

"Neal…"

"You're right. I shouldn't even ask. Let's problem-solve what you're going to do about screwing up your anniversary again."

Peter smiled. Neal was trying to con him to looking into Kate, and it was working. And it honestly wasn't a bad idea.

"I'll see what I can find," he said. Neal whipped his head around, like he hadn't expected that. "Easy. I'll look. After we nail the Dutchman."

"I'm in," said Neal. He hesitated, then offered his hand. Peter took it, and they shook.

"I don't know what you think I just agreed to do," he said. "But I hope we're on the same page."

Neal grinned. "We're bringing the Dutchman down, and then you'll look into Kate as much as you are able to without it causing you any grief. Get me home. I have some thinking to do, and I do it better with a bottle of Merlot."

Peter put the car back into gear and pulled into the traffic. The windshield wipers kept up a steady beat. As they drove in silence, he thought over their conversation. Neal put on an act like he knew he was the best at everything and had not a care in the world, but there were some things he cared about. He cared about Kate. And, Peter was hoping, he cared about something else, too.

"You did good work today," he said, his eyes on the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Neal react with surprise. Maybe he could keep him off balance with praise rather than distrust. It was something to think about.

 _Just keep him safe,_ said the voice.

Peter frowned and ignored it.


	4. Chapter 4: It's Just Instinct

A/N: Spoilers for entire series from very beginning. While Neal Caffrey is being carried off by the ambulance in the final episode (Au Revoir, S6:6), Peter Burke asks for more time, another chance to do things right. When he wakes up, he is back in his bed the morning he had caught Neal for the second time, three years earlier. The catch? He remembers nothing, except a feeling of deep loss and the sense he's forgotten something important. Is Peter doomed to make the same mistakes the second time around?

A/N2: I own nothing.

 **Chapter Four: It's Just Instinct**

Peter had spent the night not sleeping again. This time, his tossing and turning was the result of a racing mind.

 _What to do about the anniversary? El's going to kill me. Is Neal really going to let me look into Kate for him? How do we figure out where and when the Dutchman is going to print these bonds? Would El like me to cook for her? What is Neal eating in that fancy apartment? Does he cook? Of course he cooks. Maybe Neal could cook for Elizabeth and me…no, that's not part of his job. His job is to catch the Dutchman. How can we find him? First, the anniversary…_

And around and around until the light began to peek through the edges of the bedroom curtains, and Peter gave up the fight.

He showered, shaved, and dressed. El was downstairs, so he decided to take the opportunity to poke around and see if he could learn more about her the way he would about a suspect. He scanned book titles and magazines, rifled through jewelry, even opened her laptop…but then he felt guilty for snooping and closed it.

 _This is Neal's fault. He has me spying on my own wife, and it's only day two._

Just then, Peter's phone buzzed, and he picked it up.

"Yeah, this is Burke."

Jones was on the other end. "It's Jones. Caffrey's anklet is activated. Is he with you?"

 _Damnit, Neal. What did you do?_

"No, he's not with me. I'm coming. Do we have a location?"

"Diana's pulling it up," said Jones.

Peter headed for the stairs. There were two explanations for Neal's anklet to be activated. One, he had decided to go after Kate, and a lead had made him recklessly disregard his radius. Two, he had decided to run.

 _There's a third,_ said the annoying internal voice. _Maybe he's in trouble._

Peter moved faster. "El," he called, "I've got to go. Neal's outside his radius."

He heard laughter from the living room just before he reached the bottom. What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

Neal Caffrey was sitting on his sofa, laughing with his wife.

Peter's first reaction was relief. Neal was fine. He hadn't gone after Kate. He hadn't run. He was right there, looking happy and rested and…comfortable.

His second reaction was trepidation. Neal was demonstrating that he was very casual with the rules. Even if he had come to Peter's house, he _had_ gone outside his radius. He had already stretched the boundaries by securing himself a place at June's house, and that slick wardrobe. Peter needed to find a way to make Neal understand the rules were the rules, and he needed to follow them. He couldn't just break them – however minor the violation – without asking permission first. Or else he'd end up back in prison, and there wasn't anything Peter could do about it.

Jones was talking to Peter. "Burke, you still there?" he asked, probably for the fifth time.

"Yeah, I'm here. Caffrey's with me."

"You sure?" asked Jones.

"I'm looking right at him." Peter hung up the phone and continued down the stairs. Neal and Elizabeth looked up as he approached. He fixed Neal with a stern glare.

 _Get ready, Caffrey,_ he thought. _I'm about to teach you a lesson._

"Good morning, hon," said Elizabeth.

"Peter," acknowledged Neal.

"You're on my couch," Peter growled.

Neal straightened up. "Yeah. I came to talk to you, and…frankly, Peter, I have to say I'm surprised you have such an amazing wife."

"Yeah. I like her. Get off my couch."

"Honey, we're just chatting," said Elizabeth. She shot a look at Peter that clearly said, _cut it out and be nice._

"You activated your tracker," Peter said to Neal.

Satchmo wandered over and pushed his nose against Neal's leg, and Neal – ignoring Peter or buying time, Peter wasn't sure which – busied himself petting the dog.

Peter was struck by how…normal it all seemed. Neal Caffrey was a convicted felon, suspected of many, many high profile crimes. He was calculating, and always ready to con someone to get what he wanted. He wasn't dangerous in terms of being violent – Peter wasn't worried about him hurting El – but he couldn't be trusted. And yet, here, sitting on Peter's sofa, petting Satchmo, with Elizabeth giggling over her coffee cup…all of that drifted away. Peter found himself smiling at the image, wanting to grab a mug and sit and laugh with them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, in some dark corner, he swore he had a memory of doing just that. Laughing with El and Neal over wine and dinner, watching television, sitting on the back patio…

 _You can have it,_ said the internal voice. _It's there for you to take._

Peter shook it off, and frowned.

Neal looked up. "Peter, did you really put Elizabeth under surveillance before you asked her out? I underestimated you."

Peter felt his cheeks flush slightly. So maybe Neal wasn't the bad influence that made him snoop in El's things that morning. Maybe that was all Peter.

Elizabeth, sensing his embarrassment, jumped in. "Oh, Honey, I think it was cute."

"It's adorable," said Neal, shooting Peter a look.

Peter was supposed to be teaching Neal a lesson. A lesson about not bending the rules.

"I'm putting you back in prison," he said, and dialed a number on his phone. It was the number for a taxi service, but Neal didn't need to know that.

Neal rolled his eyes, but had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I know who the Dutchman is."

But maybe the lesson could wait.

"Enlighten me," he said.

"Curtis Hagan," Neal said triumphantly.

Peter hung up the phone. It seemed the lesson wasn't Neal's to be learned, but Peter's. Maybe Neal's casual relationship with rules had a rhyme and reason of its own. From the look on Neal's face, the kid couldn't wait to tell Peter about his find. And he wanted to do it in person, not just over the phone. It was…cute.

"Okay, I'll bite. Who is Curtis Hagan?" asked Peter.

Neal grinned and leaned forward. "He's an art restorer," he said. "One of the best in the world, but his own work never took off. He's particularly good a Goya restorations. That's what this is, Peter. The bond is him showing off."

Intrigued now, Peter pulled up a chair. "Interesting theory. How do we prove it?" He wanted to make sure Neal remembered that figuring things out was only half of the puzzle on this side of the law.

But Neal didn't seem fazed. His grin turned smug. "He signed it."

Peter laughed. "I think we may have noticed a signature tucked in the corner."

"Show him," said Elizabeth, gesturing to the coffee table, where a copy of the bond was laid out. Peter glanced at her in surprise. Neal had showed his wife? Exactly how long had they been "chatting" before he came downstairs?

Neal turned the bond sideways, and pointed to a spot near the center. He offered Peter a small magnifying glass.

"Look at the pants on the Spanish peasant," Neal said. "What do you see? It's the initials C and H."

Peter looked. He did see a C and H, now that it was pointed out to him, but it was awfully subtle. Not really enough to convict.

"I don't know," he said. "It's a stretch."

Neal sighed. "This bond is a masterpiece. If I'd done something this good, I would have signed it. Hey…the forgeries you caught me on? I signed them."

This caught Peter's attention. He narrowed his eyes at Neal. "Where?"

"Look at the bank seal under polarized light sometime," Neal said. He almost looked proud. But then his eyes lit up. He was excited about this break in the case, and Peter liked to see that. Having Neal excited about the work was better than having him excited about looking for Kate or planning some heist.

"What?" asked Peter.

"Hagan is doing a church restoration on Third Street. We could stop by on our way in."

"Fine," said Peter. "Meet me in the car." When Neal didn't move, he explained, "I'm going to say goodbye to my wife now."

"Oh." Neal stood up and smiled at El. "Elizabeth, it was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," said El. "After all these years."

 _About time,_ said the voice.

Peter kissed Elizabeth and followed Neal out, wondering what the voice had meant.

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

Peter didn't know what Neal had said to the priest, and he didn't want to know. At least they had a few minutes to look over Hagan's work, which Neal was doing at close range.

"There," said Neal. There was an element of gloating in his tone. "Look, C and H."

Peter squinted at the hem of the peasant's dress. It did look like a CH, similar to the one they had found on the bond. Damn, his new C.I. was impressive. But he didn't want the kid to get a big head about it.

"Maybe," he said, frowning.

"What do you mean, maybe? That's a C and an H."

Before Peter could respond, they were interrupted by a small man wearing a smock and a look of suspicion.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked. Upon seeing Neal, he smirked. "Your face – you look familiar. Maybe I've seen it. On the news? The most-wanted posters?"

"Neal Caffrey," said Neal, the blinding smile in place. He extended a hand in greeting.

"Forgive me if I don't shake hands with an art thief," said Hagan.

"Oh, I was never arrested for art theft," said Neal, unfazed.

"Never arrested, but as I understand, you were quite the renaissance criminal, so you can understand my concern at having you in my space," Hagan sneered.

Peter immediately hated the little man. It could have been the way his cold eyes roamed over Neal, or that smug smirk. It could have been the tone of his voice, which implied a subtle taunt and an underlying threat.

But none of that explained the vision Peter had of Hagan – because he was sure this was Hagan – falling to the ground, shot in the chest by an unknown sniper. It didn't explain the loathing that was rising up from his stomach to gurgle around in his throat.

Before he realized what he was doing, Peter had stepped forward and grabbed Neal's left arm at the bicep, a protective and possessive hold that said _keep away, he's mine_.

To his credit, Neal didn't react to Peter's bruising grip. Instead, he simply laughed. "I'm only here as an admirer of your work," said Neal.

Hagan turned his focus on Peter then, and Peter quickly made excuses so they could get out of there.

"Hagan recognized you quick," said Peter, once they had left the church and were back in the car.

"Yeah, well…I have a certain reputation." Neal's voice was filled with wry pride.

"You mean you're famous for the heists you've pulled in the art world."

"Allegedly pulled," corrected Neal.

Peter sighed. "No chance you'd just satisfy my curiosity about a few of them?"

Neal laughed. "No chance you'd offer me full immunity?"

"Fair enough. Okay, so I agree with you, I think Hagan's our guy. Trouble is, we don't have any way to tie him to the Victory Bonds."

"Yet," said Neal.

"Yet," Peter agreed. "How do we get it? What we need is to figure out where the bonds are being printed and tie the location to Hagan. Or find out if Hagan has connections to ownership or lease of any properties in town and search them to find the bonds."

"I can look into that," said Neal. "Check with…the street."

Peter shot him a look. "Any particular street?"

Neal just smiled cryptically. Okay, so Neal had already renewed contact with some of his old friends. That was fine. That was the point. Peter would just like to be kept in the loop to make sure Neal wasn't getting into more trouble than Peter could get him out of.

"Well," said Peter, "while you're checking with the street, I'll have Diana run through our usual channels. "

Peter made the call and the request, and then pulled out into traffic. They rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Peter spoke up again. "Hey, I have another question for you."

"Sure," said Neal. "As long as it's not about crimes I may have allegedly committed."

"It's not. Probably. I was trying to come up with ideas for my anniversary, and I'm stumped. You're the romantic. What's the deal with the bottle?"

"It's an '82 Bordeaux," said Neal. Peter waited, but he didn't go on. Of course, Neal would make him ask more questions. He'd never just volunteer information. That was actually smart.

"I know that," said Peter. "And I also know that wine costs eight hundred bucks."

One corner of Neal's mouth turned up. "It does when it's full. I got it empty." Peter shot Neal a look, and Neal sighed. "Look, when Kate and I met, we had nothing. I got that bottle, and we would fill it up with whatever cheap wine we could afford, and we'd sit in that crappy apartment and drink it over cold pizza and pretend we were living in the Cote d'Azur."

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for you?" asked Peter, pulling to a stop at a red light. That was really Neal's problem, after all. He dreamed so big he couldn't deal with reality. So he pulled these cons and frauds and heists in order to reach for those dreams without putting in the hard work. Peter was about to say as much, when Neal responded.

"It didn't," he said. He started to say something else, then stopped abruptly.

Neal dropped his gaze to his lap, and Peter noticed his jaw muscles twitching. He was upset, remembering, and Peter immediately felt bad for bringing it up. He was about to say something, to change the subject, when Neal looked up and fixed Peter with a direct gaze. There he went again, gathering himself up with his own strength, not needing Peter's help. It was admirable.

"That bottle was a promise of a better life," he said. "What Kate got was a guy locked away for half a decade. Make Elizabeth any promises, Peter?"

Peter thought about it. He had made plenty of promises. Were any of them something he could fulfill in the next two days? Not likely…but he'd keep thinking.

"That's good," said Peter. "Thanks. I can do something with that."

"I live to serve," said Neal. "Now can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Back there, when you grabbed my arm? What did you think I was about to do, take a swing at Hagan?"

Peter swallowed. Thinking about that moment, his instinct to grab Neal…it was protective. He didn't like Hagan, sensed a threat to Neal, and acted, without any real justification. Not that grabbing Neal's arm would have done any good had anything happened, but he was ready to pull him out of danger, at least.

And that was strange.

What was more strange, however, was that even playing over the split second decision in his head made Peter uncomfortable. Once again, he was reminded of how he had felt the morning of Neal's escape: uneasy, on edge, and incredibly sad.

He cleared his throat. Neal was waiting patiently for a response.

"No," said Peter. "I know you don't tend to violent outbursts, as a rule. You keep your composure."

"So…what was it about?"

Peter couldn't come up with any rational explanation. So he sighed and decided to tell the truth. Part of it, anyway.

"Honestly? I'm not sure. It was instinct. I didn't like Hagan, and he was threatening you. So…" Peter shrugged, as if to add, _no big deal._

"So you had my back," said Neal. There was a bit of awe in his voice.

"I guess," said Peter. "Like I said, it was just instinct. That guy's dirty. Not like _you_ , dirty – not that you're _dirty_ , just that you're also a criminal – but Hagan is…he's…"

"I know what you mean," said Neal dryly. "And…thanks, Peter."

Peter's phone rang, and, grateful for the interruption, he answered, letting it play over the speakers in the car.

"Hey boss," came Diana's voice.

"Diana. What have you got for us?"

"Nothing good," said Diana, her voice grim. "Hagan is leaving the country. He booked a flight through a private charter company for the 19th."

Peter slammed the heel of his hand onto the dashboard, causing Neal to jump.

"One week. Damnit, Neal. Seeing you must have tipped him off."

"He's going to Spain," said Neal. "That's something."

"Diana, anything else? Any ties to the books, or the bonds, the murder?" asked Peter, but he already knew the answer.

"Nothing. This guy's good, Peter. Plenty of international holdings, but he keeps himself out of the muck."

"Keep looking," said Peter. "I want every available agent on this. We're pulling up to the office now and will be up in a few minutes." As Peter spoke the words, he slid into a space in the FBI building garage.

"Got it, boss," said Diana. The line disconnected.

"Neal," said Peter, "if you're right about Hagan, we have one week to connect him to the bonds. If he leaves for Spain on the 19th, we lose him."

"And then?" asked Neal.

"If we lose him on the 19th…Neal, you're back in prison. I won't be able to save you."

Peter glanced at Neal. His C.I. was staring out the window to the concrete wall in front of them. He was very still, like a statue.

"Neal?" said Peter. He reached out a hand, again by instinct, but then pulled back.

After a moment, Neal turned to look at him. For a second, the worry – close to fear – was apparent in his eyes. But then it slipped away, back inside, and Neal was smiling his confident, cocky smile.

"Well then," said Neal. "I guess we can't lose him." The statement was almost a challenge, a dare for Peter to disagree.

"So…then we won't," said Peter, returning Neal's smile. If his C.I. could keep it together, so could he.

Even though the thought of sending Neal back to prison made Peter sick to his stomach.

 _It's just instinct,_ he thought.


	5. Chapter 5: Trust is a Fragile Exchange

A/N: Spoilers for entire series from very beginning. While Neal Caffrey is being carried off by the ambulance in the final episode (Au Revoir, S6:6), Peter Burke asks for more time, another chance to do things right. When he wakes up, he is back in his bed the morning he had caught Neal for the second time, three years earlier. The catch? He remembers nothing, except a feeling of deep loss and the sense he's forgotten something important. Is Peter doomed to make the same mistakes the second time around?

A/N2: I own nothing.

 **Chapter Five: Trust is a Fragile Exchange**

When Peter arrived at work the next day, he was feeling less and less certain of success. They had had agents digging through financial records and travel plans and cell phone logs all night, and still they had come up with absolutely nothing to tie Hagan to the bonds. Of course, it was always possible Hagan was working with someone, a front man, and without information as to whom, this was all an exercise in futility.

On his way out the night before, Neal had poked his head into Peter's office.

"I'm heading out," he said. "I'm meeting…someone. If anyone can find info on Hagan, it's him."

"Good," said Peter. "This person someone I should worry about?"

"Probably," said Neal. At Peter's surprised look, Neal laughed. "If I had said no, you would worry anyhow. Tell me I'm wrong."

Peter merely grunted, and Neal donned his hat and slid out with a smile.

This morning, he was grasping at a small hope that Neal's contact had come up with something. Any kind of lead at all. They needed a win on this, because he was _not_ sending Neal back to prison. That was what was on his mind as he hung up his jacket and turned to settle in to his desk.

The yellow manila envelope in the middle of his desk caught his attention.

It was blank, holding no clues as to whom it was from or what was inside. That was unusual, and it made Peter wary. Usually, when someone hid their identity, it meant they were covering up something bad.

He picked up the envelope by one corner, and looked it over. It was pristine, without any marks or creases, as though it had been handled carefully. Just as carefully, he slid a silver letter-opener under the flap and slit the crisp paper. He peered inside, then shook the contents onto his desk, setting aside the envelope to send for analysis.

A single glossy photo stared up at him. The image was slightly grainy, and looked to have been taken by a security camera, probably at an ATM. In the foreground, to the left of the photo, was Kate Moreau. She looked unhappy, and her doe eyes were cast to the side, as though watching the man who was gripping her shoulder.

Not much could be seen of the man – all that was visible was a hand, wearing a large pinky ring.

The trouble was, Peter knew that ring. Not specifically that one, but it was made from an FBI ten-year pin. He had one himself, and so did most of the agents in the Bureau. What was clear was that whomever Kate was with – whomever had clamped down on her shoulder so forcefully – was with the FBI, and that was cause for concern.

It meant that maybe Caffrey wasn't grasping at straws when he expressed a desire to look for Kate. Maybe Kate hadn't left of her own accord, and there was something more sinister going on.

Peter felt a chill settle on his shoulders like a wet towel, an acute sense of foreboding. Something wasn't right here, and he was more sure of that than his usual gut instinct would allow.

 _Keep Neal safe,_ screamed his internal voice.

This time, Peter didn't ignore it. This photo clearly indicated that Neal was in danger from an unknown aggressor, and Peter decided then and there that he would figure out who was threatening his C.I. and take them down.

He caught a glimpse of Caffrey stepping off the elevator and quickly slid the photo back into the envelope and shoved the envelope into his bottom desk drawer. Until he knew more, he didn't want Neal to know he had received it. The kid was likely to do something impulsive, and they had enough to worry about at the moment.

By the time Neal made his way up the stairs and knocked on Peter's door, Peter was tapping away at a form on his computer. He looked up.

"You look…smug," said Peter.

"I am smug," said Neal, a sparkle in his eyes. " _I_ found Hagan."

"Sit. Speak," said Peter.

Neal rolled his eyes and gracefully slid into a chair. "Maybe I'm on a leash, and I come when you call, but…"

Neal raised an eyebrow, and Peter chuckled.

"Okay, I get it. You're not a dog. Tell me what you found out."

"There's this warehouse down by the docks. He runs it through a shell corporation out of Guatemala."

Thoughts of the mysterious photo and potential FBI involvement fled faster than cockroaches under a spotlight. The distant threat to Neal could wait while they took care of the more immediate one.

He narrowed his eyes. "We didn't know about this, how did you?"

Neal tilted his head to one side. "I don't think you rely on rumor as much as I do."

"Fair enough. Want to check it out?" Peter stood and grabbed his jacket. "Or have you already?"

Neal rose with him. "Couldn't do it without you," he said with a brilliant smile. "It's outside my radius."

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

Peter drummed his fingers on his desk. They were back in the office, having determined that Hagan – or someone, anyway – was running printing presses in the warehouse Neal had found.

"I don't get it, Peter. We know the bonds are in there. We should have broken down the door." Neal dropped into a chair, throwing his hands up in the air.

Peter sighed. "First of all, we would need backup. We know Hagan is willing to murder, and we have to assume his men are armed and instructed to shoot intruders first and ask questions later. Second of all, we can't just break down the door based on some anonymous rumor about Hagan's potential ownership and the possible sound of printing presses. It's not enough for a warrant." Peter picked up a fat book from his shelf and slid it across the desk to Neal. "Warrant law. Read up on it."

Neal's foot began a rapid tapping. He looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. "But he's going to finish printing and get away with it. And—"

"And you'll go back to prison. I know. We're close, Neal. We just need a little more."

"We know that the bond at the archives is a forgery." Neal began to count off the evidence on his fingers. "We know that Hagan is a Goya expert, his signature is on the forged bond, and a similar signature is worked into his restoration at the church on third street. We know there are printing presses inside the warehouse, and we know Hagan owns it. What more do we need?"

Peter sat back and steepled his fingers together. "It's a good case. The missing link is between Hagan and the warehouse. We can't get a warrant based on mysterious information from an unknown source, when we can't confirm it independently. My agents haven't been able to trace the ownership of the shell corporation. I hate to say it, Neal, but I need to meet your friend."

Neal got to his feet. "Peter—"

"I know, I know." Peter stood up and came around the desk. He laid a hand on Neal's shoulder, the only thing he could think to do to calm the kid down. "You need to keep your contacts in order to be useful. But you won't have the chance to be useful after this if we don't get Hagan and keep you out of prison. What's it gonna be?"

Neal slumped slightly, but then nodded. "Okay. I'll bring you to him. Tomorrow morning."

"Good. We can get him, Neal. We're close. Let's bring this thing into the endzone."

Neal raised an eyebrow at him. "A sports metaphor? Really?"

"Fine. Let's make the…picture frame. Whatever the last step of painting is. That better?"

"No, it's really not," he said, but he granted Peter with a smile.

Neal turned to leave, but then stopped in the doorway. He hovered there a moment, as if trying to decide whether he had something else to say.

"Something on your mind?" asked Peter.

Neal turned and, after a brief hesitation, nodded. "Can I talk to you about something else?"

"Sure," said Peter, returning to his desk. "Have a seat."

Neal closed the door behind him before sinking nervously back into his chair. Peter watched him carefully.

"Remember when you told me not to look for Kate?" Neal asked, his eyes on his lap.

"I do," said Peter.

 _Neal, what have you done now?_ he wondered.

"Yes, well…" Neal reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He laid it on Peter's desk.

Peter did his best to control his reaction. It was the photo of Kate, the same one Peter had received that morning…with one key difference. In this photo, only Kate herself was visible. Her shoulder – and the hand of the man with the FBI ring – was removed, as though it had been cut off.

He raised his eyes to Neal, who was watching him carefully. Peter had to play this just right, and this was a key moment of decision. Should he tell Neal that he had this photo as well? Should he tell Neal about the rest of the photo? Had Neal seen the rest of the photo and was keeping it from him?

And where had Neal gotten it? What exactly was he up to, that he had access to an ATM photo like this?

 _Trust him_ , said the internal voice. _Honesty…it will keep him safe._

But if Neal hadn't seen the man's hand, Peter didn't want him to do something stupid. No, it was best to be cautious about this.

"Neal, you're putting me in a tough spot here. Where did you get this?"

Neal answered a slightly different question. "This was taken four days ago at a San Diego ATM. So I was thinking—"

"Neal," warned Peter. It seemed Neal hadn't gotten the photo anonymously, otherwise he'd have no idea where it had been taken. No, he had somehow gotten it another way, and that was worrisome.

"Look, I just need a couple of days after this Dutchman thing is over. A couple of days in San Diego. You can send an agent with me. _You_ can come with me—"

"Stop it. Neal, I told you I would see what I could do about finding Kate. _After_ we solve the Dutchman case. I need you to stop doing whatever you were doing to get ahold of this, and let me worry about Kate."

All Peter needed was someone from the Bureau, whomever was involved with this business and who was in the picture with Kate, to get wind of Neal's investigations. This could be dangerous. He had to put an end to it.

"But—" Neal looked like he was gearing up for a big speech.

"I gave you something good here, and you're gonna blow it. I don't know how you got this, but it can't have been legal. You have to swear to me, _right now_ , that you're going to leave this to me."

"Peter—"

"Neal, I promise you – I swear – I will look into Kate. Okay? I will. Even though I think you're better off without the girl who keeps screwing up your life, I will pursue it. But I need you to stay away from it. Do you hear me?"

Neal stared at Peter, his mouth set.

"Neal. You have to say it. Say you're going to leave this to me. I will let you know what I find. But you have to trust me. Trust me to do this for you, and protect you from the fallout."

Something shifted in Neal's eyes. He glanced down, breaking the stare, and then back up.

"Okay," he said, his voice quiet. "I'll…trust you. But please…"

"Please what?"

"Please tell me what you find. Don't protect me from information. I need to know."

Peter hesitated, and then nodded. "I'll tell you."

 _Just as soon as I figure a few things out,_ he added silently. _Like who sent me the photo, and whether you're hiding part of it from me._

He could justify immediately breaking Neal's trust if he intended to honor it later, once he knew he could trust Neal in return. Right?

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

Several hours later, Peter was pushing his meatloaf around on his plate, frowning. Elizabeth had been telling him a story about something that had happened at work, but he had given up on paying attention. He couldn't stop thinking about the damned photo.

He had passed the – empty – envelope to Diana and asked her to run it for DNA on the flap or anything that could give a hint as to where it had come from. He knew she would keep it on the down low. But the envelope had been clean. Its appearance was still a mystery.

He didn't know how he was going to handle it. He felt bad for keeping it from Neal, but then again, Neal was keeping things from him. Including part of the photo, he was sure of it. And he wasn't a fool…he didn't really believe Neal would stop looking for Kate. Neal was careful with his words, and he hadn't actually said he would stop, just that he'd trust Peter.

And that wasn't the same thing.

"Hon, what's wrong?" El put down her fork and laid a hand on Peter's arm. That small touch was enough to bring him back to the present, at least temporarily.

He sighed. "It's Neal," he said.

"I figured. What has he done now?"

"It's not so much what he's done," said Peter, frowning. "It's more what he _hasn't_ done. Or…what I suspect he hasn't. He's keeping things from me."

"Well, can you blame him? After all, you are responsible for putting him in prison for four years, and then another four after that. I wouldn't trust you completely either."

"I suppose." Peter rubbed his hands over his face. Neal had only been his responsibility for two days, and he was already exhausted. How was he supposed to endure four years of this?

"What is he keeping from you?" asked El. Her tone had turned practical, and Peter could tell she was about to problem-solve. Maybe that would help. It usually did.

"Well, he gave me a photo today." Peter pushed his chair back and crossed to the coffee table. He dug the photo from Neal and the other one, the one he had received that morning, out of his briefcase. He returned to the table and placed Neal's version in front of his wife.

"Is this Kate?" asked El. "She's very pretty."

"She is," said Peter. "Neal handed me this, and said it was taken at an ATM in San Diego."

"How did he get an ATM photo from San Diego? Oh. Is that what's worrying you?"

"Part of it," said Peter. "He has underworld contacts, and no doubt he's got someone who's digging around where they shouldn't be. I'll always be worried about that, but…since it's also his job, in a way, that's not the real problem."

Peter considered what he had just said. That was true. He planned to rely on Neal doing things or contacting people that weren't really above board – already had, in fact – so he couldn't really fault him for that on its own.

"So what is it?" asked El.

"Look at the difference between that photo and the one I received anonymously on my desk this morning."

Peter handed El the complete photo, and she took it, pursing her lips.

"She's with someone," El observed.

"Yeah. So the question is, why is Neal hiding that part of the photo from me?"

El sat back in her chair. "Maybe he isn't," she said. "Where did your photo come from?"

"I found it on my desk this morning. I don't know where it came from."

El nodded. "Maybe Neal got his in the same way. He got a partial photo, doesn't know more than that."

"Maybe."

"But you don't think so," El observed.

"I don't," said Peter. "If he had gotten it anonymously like I did, he wouldn't know when and where it was taken. So he came by it on his own, which suggests he had the entire thing."

"Well, then let's assume that Neal did have the entire photo. Why might he have decided to hide half of it from you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Have you told him about your photo?"

"No," said Peter.

"Why?"

"Because I know something about that hand, and I'm not sure it would do Neal any good to have that information, not before I know more."

"You know who this is with Kate?" El's brow wrinkled in concern.

"Not exactly, but look at that ring. It's an FBI pin, just like the one I have. Whoever was with Kate in this photo is with the Bureau, and if I tell Neal that…"

"He'll have even less reason to trust you or anyone you work with, and more reason to hide what he's doing."

"Exactly."

"Well, hon, it seems like you have a good reason for not telling Neal you know about the whole photo."

"I do," said Peter. "So?"

"So, my point is, maybe Neal has a good reason for not showing you, just like you have for not showing him."

Peter nodded. "You're right. And I want to trust him. I do."

"Why don't you?"

"Because…he does things that make me _not_ trust him. Like hiding part of the photo, or dodging my questions," he said.

"What would make you trust him?" she asked. Peter considered for a moment.

"I suppose…if he showed me that even when I wasn't watching, he would behave in a way that was trustworthy."

"Then…don't you need to give him a chance to do that?" She raised her eyebrows at him in a very teacherly fashion. She knew she had made the key point.

Peter leaned over and kissed his wife. He loved how she could cut through the mess and straighten him out sometimes. He didn't know what he would do without her.

"I do," he said. "I'll try."

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

 _Neal was standing on the tarmac at an airport, a small charter plane on the runway behind him. Peter wasn't sure what was going on, he just knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could not let Neal get on that plane. Neal's life, and Peter's, depended on it._

 _They were arguing about something. Neal was trying to get Peter to accept something. He turned toward the plane…he was running, and Peter had to stop him…_

Peter woke up with a start. This time, he remembered the dream. The panic he felt, and the urgency of keeping Neal off that plane, was the reason for his racing pulse and quickened breath.

He struggled to calm down, taking a few deep breaths, and realized his phone was buzzing, vibrating on the nightstand.

Peter shook off the haze of the dream as best he could and reached for his phone.

"Yeah?" his voice was rough and raw with sleep.

"Agent Burke? This is Carrigan, from the Marshals. Neal Caffrey is outside his radius."

"Damn," said Peter, his heart sinking. It seemed like maybe Neal couldn't risk that they wouldn't nail Hagan. Or maybe he couldn't resist going to San Diego to find Kate's trail.

"What's the matter?" asked El.

"Neal ran," said Peter.

 _And now I have to catch him. Again._

Twenty minutes later, he was blowing through stop signs and running red lights. According to the Marshals, Neal had not cut his anklet, which was odd. That meant they could still track him. He had been headed south, and he seemed to be in a vehicle, because he was moving too fast.

His phone buzzed. "Give me a location," Peter barked.

"He's been stationary for about six minutes," said the Marshal on the other end.

When Peter heard the address, a slow smile spread across his face. Damn, his C.I. was smart.

 _Maybe I should have been trusting Neal after all,_ he thought.

Minutes later, he screeched to a stop in front of Hagan's warehouse. His team and other officers in S.W.A.T. gear were pulling up beside him. He stepped out of his car.

"Gentlemen," he shouted, "we have a fugitive hiding in this building. Knock down those doors."

The team surged forward, and Peter strode into the warehouse, Diana at his side. His grin grew wider as the agents circled several men, including Hagan himself, and took control of several printing presses, batches of Snow White books – and the forged bonds.

"This is what the law calls an exigent circumstance. Diana, can you fill us in?"

"Exigent circumstance allows us to pursue a suspect onto private property without obtaining a warrant," said Diana proudly.

"And to seize any and all evidence that is discovered in plain view, regardless of the connection to the original crime," added Peter.

 _Thanks, Neal. Now, where are you?_

Peter had been so focused on nailing Hagan that he hadn't let himself think about how Neal had gotten into the warehouse and whether he was all right. The fear rose up in his stomach, making him walk faster and look around frantically.

There. On the far side of the room was a glass-enclosed office. Inside stood a dark-haired man in a wool coat. As Peter watched, he lifted his arm and waved.

Relief was sweet. He reached the office in seconds, and Neal opened the door to welcome him. What Peter really wanted to do was grab him in a bear hug. Neal was safe, _and_ they had caught the Dutchman, meaning he could keep Neal by his side.

"You know," said Peter, unable to contain his grin, "you're really bad at this escape thing."

Neal shrugged. "What can I say? Cigar?" he offered, waggling what looked like an illegal Cuban.

"Cuban?" asked Peter.

"Yeah. You should arrest me." Neal's eyes were at full sparkle. He knew he had done well.

"Well, I'll let the cigar go. But you are a fleeing suspect. Should I cuff you?"

Neal glanced over his shoulder at an open safe. On the top shelf sat a Spanish Victory Bond.

Peter grinned wider. "Is that the original Victory Bond?"

Neal nodded. "Looks like it. In plain view and everything."

He hopped up to sit on the desk and took a puff of the cigar. Peter shook his head, and joined him, their hips and shoulders touching.

"So I guess this makes me three and oh," said Peter.

"Maybe I'm not trying hard enough," said Neal. He leaned over and bumped his shoulder against Peter's.

Without thinking, Peter slung his arm around Neal's shoulders and squeezed. Neal went still for a moment, then relaxed.

"So I did good?" he asked.

"You did good," said Peter.

 _Better than I could have hoped._

WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC

That night, Peter climbed the stairs to Neal's apartment at the top of June's mansion.

The day had been a whirlwind of paperwork and interrogation, and he had only had a few minutes with Neal. Just enough time to get a statement from him about deciding to investigate on his own – not trying to escape – and forgetting about his anklet in his excitement. He swore with a straight face that he hadn't thought about the warehouse being outside the radius, and was so grateful Peter and the FBI had shown up to help him out when he got in a tight spot. He was firm that he and Peter had not discussed any sort of plan ahead of time, and made it clear that Peter had wanted to meet his source and Neal didn't want to reveal that contact so early in his career as an FBI consultant.

His C.I. was not only smart, he also had a silver tongue and a disarming pair of eyes. They weren't going to have any trouble selling this as completely on the up-and-up. Of course, it was the only time they'd get away with an "exigent circumstances" bust, and he'd have to make sure Neal understood that, but it was a brilliant play.

Since Peter had been tied up in interrogation with Hagan and his cronies when Neal headed home, Peter needed to see him one more time before the day was over. Needed to talk to him in private. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, just that he was compelled to stop and climb those stairs.

And knock on Neal's door.

"Just a minute," came the voice from inside. He heard a chair move, and footsteps, and then the door swung open.

"You're early—" Neal started to say, then stopped abruptly. "Peter? What's wrong?"

"Can I come in?" asked Peter.

"Of course," said Neal. He stepped to the side. "Make yourself at home."

Peter strode through the door and looked around. He smiled softly, thinking that this place was exactly right for Neal. Lots of natural light so he could paint, tall bookshelves no doubt filled with hard-to-find editions of the classics…and a surprisingly impressive wine collection for someone receiving a work-release salary.

"Peter?" asked Neal, when Peter had been staring around the apartment for a full minute. "Is something the matter? Why didn't you just call?"

 _Why didn't you just call?_ Actually, that was a good question. He hadn't called that morning, either, when he could have. For some reason it didn't even occur to him to call Neal, ask what he was doing outside of his radius. It's a good thing he hadn't, but he'd have to remember that next time.

Had Peter really been so distrustful, so sure Neal would run on his anklet, that he hadn't even bothered to entertain the thought that there might be some reasonable explanation? What had he been thinking the day before, that Neal might have a good reason for some of his deception?

Peter shook his head. "Nothing's the matter. I wasn't able to talk to you with all the activity going on, and…I wanted to check in."

Neal looked mildly surprised for a moment, but he hid it well. "I was just about to open a bottle," said Neal. "Would you like a glass?"

"Sure," said Peter. "Unless you have beer."

Neal shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "Next time I will, though."

Peter watched Neal retrieve two glasses from the cabinet and pop open a bottle of something red that looked expensive. The wine sloshed into the glasses with a satisfying swirl, and Neal picked them up. He handed one to Peter

"To our first victory," said Neal, offering his glass in toast.

"Indeed." Peter clinked his own glass against Neal's, and they took a sip.

The wine tasted expensive, too.

Peter shook it off. Minor things, not worth getting worked up over.

They sat at the table, and sipped in silence for a moment, watching each other. Just when Peter was about to speak, Neal cleared his throat.

"Peter, I…I want to talk to you about something."

"What?" asked Peter cautiously.

Neal sighed. He reached across the dining table, pulling something out of an art book. He laid it in front of Peter.

Peter stared. It was the photo of Kate, the complete photo, including the man with the ring.

"What is this?" asked Peter.

"This is the photo. The real one," said Neal. "I only gave you part of it before, because…I don't know why."

"Because you don't trust me?" asked Peter.

"No. Because I'm so used to only revealing what is necessary to get what I want, that it was instinct. I only needed you to see the photo so that you'd let me look into San Diego…or you would look into San Diego. You didn't need to know that someone _has_ her. That she's not on her own." Neal fidgeted in his chair, a very unusual look for him.

Peter thought for a moment. What was the right move, here? It was another key moment of decision, and he had to decide immediately. If he didn't tell Neal – right now – that he also received the photo, he couldn't ever tell him without shattering Neal's trust, such as it was. And if he didn't immediately say that he recognized the ring…

"Say something," said Neal. "You're disappointed, you're sending me back to prison…"

"I understand," said Peter.

Neal blinked at him. "You do?"

Peter sighed. "Yes. Look, I know trusting the FBI isn't natural for you. Your eventual freedom depends on keeping things from me. It's not like I expect you to open up and tell me about all of your past heists—"

"Alleged heists."

"—or even want me to meet any of your contacts or see what you do when you're checking with 'the street.' I get it. And I even get that finding Kate is so important to you that you'd keep looking for her and hide it from me as much as possible. It doesn't surprise me."

"So…what now?"

Peter decided to go halfway. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his own copy of the photo.

Neal stared at it, mouth falling open. "You already had it," he said.

"I got it yesterday morning," said Peter. "Before you gave me the partial. It showed up on my desk. Anonymously."

"Why?" asked Neal.

"No clue," said Peter. "There was nothing to link it to anyone, but someone put it there. Someone wanted me to know that Kate was with someone else, not off on her own."

Neal sat back in his chair, frowned. "Maybe it was the man with the ring," he suggested.

"Maybe. But why?"

Neal shook his head. "No idea. Peter…I'm sorry I didn't show you the whole photo right away."

Peter chuckled. "Honestly? I'm glad you showed it to me at all, and admitted you were still looking for Kate. It demonstrated that maybe you were willing to trust me, _if_ I could show I was trustworthy."

"You have," said Neal. "By letting me know you have the photo too. So what now?"

"Now," said Peter, "you let me do what I promised I would do. Let me look into this. Stay away from it. Trust me to tell you what I find."

Neal took a long drink, and then set his empty glass on the table. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll trust you to tell me. Do you believe me?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "No," he said. "I believe that you'll do what you want. But Neal…just keep me in the loop. This could be dangerous for you, and not just because you could get thrown back in prison."

Neal smiled slightly. "Agent Burke, it sounds like you care."

"Inmate Caffrey…I do."

All humor dropped from Neal's features. "Actually, I believe that. Speaking of which… did they make a decision?"

Peter set his glass down and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a leather folder and flipped it open to reveal a mini-badge and consultant I.D., complete with Neal's headshot. He was going to enjoy this moment.

"Figured if we didn't, you'd end up making one of these on your own," he said.

Neal's face broke out into a broad grin, the one that got him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He laughed. "I'm official," he said.

"You're a consultant," said Peter. "And I own you for four years. You okay with that?"

"I'm very okay with that," said Neal. He took the I.D. and examined it, shaking his head in wonder.

Peter tried to ignored the thrill he felt at the exchange. Neal Caffrey was his for the foreseeable future. They were going to move mountains together, and it was going to be _fun_.

And he could trust in that, at least.


End file.
